The young bucks showed up during local hunting season at our house, leisurely strolling among the rows of bungalows acting like our little urban neighborhood close to downtown was some enchanted clapboard forest. But don’t be fooled — they are alert, wily fellows who are always on the lookout for the flash of a florescent orange hat or glint of gun metal, ready at a moment’s notice for a quick change of plans into the brambly unknown. And I’ve been right there with them this year, veering and leaping away from looming fear and uncertainty that still hunt for the vulnerable in dark shadows.
After the vaccinations, we thought we could venture out into the bright open meadows, that plague season was almost over. The news was optimistic, and we held on to those rescheduled concert tickets instead of asking for refunds. Herd immunity was within our grasp, and the seeds of future plans were planted. By midsummer, there was a faint scent of danger on the breeze but close-to-normal outdoor gatherings and events led us to believe that we were still cautiously protected as we brazenly shopped in stores barefaced.
By fall, we were masked again, waiting for boosters, forfeiting the tickets to shows that blindly continued to go on, and debated whether to gather in large numbers for our annual rituals. Last-minute decisions and changes in venue were woven into the run of our days as we tried to anticipate the hunt’s next move. At Thanksgiving we were back to zooming our greetings from afar.
Now at the turn of the year, I find that my trail has circled back to the same trap. My escapes have all been discovered and cover exposed. The herd has dispersed into separate ways, and we may not meet again. I walk into the darkest months with tools I have honed, senses sharpened, prepared to spin into new directions. As I watch the buck boys bedded down in our backyard with their antlers blended into branches, they return my gaze telling me that they know I’m there and the worst mistake in life is to become complacent.
Here’s to safer sojourns and greener pastures in 2022.
Maybe the sun has been shining more, or maybe my outlook has been lighter, but I’ve noticed a number of beautiful sunsets this month. We live farther down a rather long hill, so the best views are always near the top of the street. This is also the best vantage point to watch thousands of crows stream in at dusk to circle the county courthouse a few blocks away in a local remake of Hitchcock’s famous movie.
I’m not sure why they congregate in this spot every year. Perhaps the glow from festive lights strung from surrounding streets to the building’s dome attract them. Maybe this ground is their ancient gathering place where thoughtless settlers happened to build a courthouse long ago. Whatever the reason, you know it’s the holidays when the crows arrive. Before we moved here, our own family holiday tradition brought us to this quirky city with its unique art galleries, funky boutiques and ethnic restaurants between Christmas and New Years.
If we stayed in the town square until dark, we would see clouds of crows swirl around the courthouse and settle in the trees. They are big and loud, and . . . make unwelcome contributions to the lawn and sidewalks. For years, the city’s maintenance department has tried various ways to deter the birds with fake owls and sound recordings, only to be outwitted by the crafty creatures.
Humans are once again reminded that nature usually has the final say, one way or another. Crows are smart–I can only hope the group of them isn’t contemplating murder.
In my defense, let me start off by saying that the first sock was finished about five years ago. Alas, the conundrum about socks is that there should be a second sock in order to possess a pair, and that is the downfall of sock knitters everywhere, particularly the first-timer. After you finish the initial sock with all its tricky sections and stitch holders, you want to shout from the rooftops about your accomplishment. But you can’t because, well, one bare foot will be left out in the cold. You are not done.
My never-ending sock saga has become a running joke with the family and an embarrassing metaphor in my life. Initially begun in the summer of 2011 for a bit of light knitting when the weather was too hot to engage with a sweater or scarf or (heaven forbid) a blanket, the socks could be hauled around discreetly in an old drawstring bag from the Apple store, and pulled out for a few rounds of cuff on a long car trip or an interminable wait in the doctor’s office. In this age of pandemic, however, the car rides and wait times have all but disappeared. As the months ticked by, the sock still lay hidden in the far corner of my closet, mocking me.
While I continue to remain at home finding excuses not to go out, avoiding large gatherings and social engagements, reluctant to drive anywhere because of my ever-evolving eyesight, the unfinished business of my former life gathers dust in the basement and garage, or finds itself quickly stuffed into bags for the goodwill store before I can have second thoughts. With questionable supply chains and drastic price increases, I’m reluctant to relinquish materials I used to take for granted that I could procure again should the need arise. Grateful for my circumstances, I’m all too aware that even though I may be able to afford a replacement, just finding one may prove impossible.
Like my relatives who survived the Great Depression by saving everything, I’ve begun to hang on to stuff that I never thought twice about recycling or giving away two years ago. While not at the hoarder stage yet, I am finally finishing the valued projects that I started, sometimes long ago. Take as an example the afghan for my husband that I began in 2015 and still needed to complete two days ago–my future plans require me to weave in the loose ends (however many there are) and finish off the raw edges so that my husband can be provided with protection from winter drafts after the investment in buying all those skeins of yarn years ago.
Now that I have picked up the sock baton once again, determined to reward my feet with some wooly warmth in the cold months to come, the ghosts of many lost potential wearings have been sent to purgatory amongst the best-laid plans and procrastination. Like the rest of my life, I have shoved so much under the bed to be dealt with another day. I admit to being surrounded by unread books and magazines, empty scrapbooks, recipe binders yet to be filled, unwatched websites and YouTube subscriptions, unplanted seeds and as-yet-to-be gathered herbs. The list goes on forever, but the socks are a first step to knitting freedom and purling wisdom, I hope.
September has been a long, lingering sip of wine for me. In my youth, I was thoughtlessly busy with the beginning of school, homework, new friends and harvesting on the farm. This year I have slowed to a crawl and savor the heat and dry days while letting go of my former life yet again. I’m facing the fact that I will never return to work with the public as a teacher, writer or artist. The crone’s inward turning after 60, release of old blood ties and obligations, and a new gratitude for simply waking up every day have replaced the angst in my fifties.
I am grateful daily for the little dramas and triumphs I find in my small urban lot–the spiders who live or die by what ends up in their web, a mockingbird’s virtuoso performance all day long in the backyard, the monarch’s heroic journey as it finds respite from the Tithonia or zinnia of its homeland before heading south, and the late-planted poppies that insist on flowering no matter how late in the season.
I hesitate before planting my fall crops, afraid to break the spell of this enchanted late-summer slumber before the hard frosts. I know the cold will come but I’m in no great rush, lulled by the soft song of tree frogs and crickets amid the whir from grasshopper’s wings that continue to fairy dance on languid evenings. Winter will come soon enough, but until then I pause on the doorstep, listening to the faint echo of summer’s retreating footsteps.
They came in all forms, winged, buzzing, and pollinating their little hearts out. The seeds I’d ordered through catalogs in the dead of winter, nurtured from faith under grow lights, transplanted to flats that waited through a cold spring, finally planted in ground later than usual — were waiting for them. The targets were a mix and a gamble, all of them. Some blooms had started out strong and sure, budding and expected to perform, only to be cut down in their prime by ravenous rodents or hoofed invaders. The weak and spindly that were not expected to survive have surprised and surpassed expectations, a reminder that struggle can create strength.
I am always humbled as a gardener to witness the urge to grow and flourish at all costs, to sacrifice the root and plant for the flower and seed, the extraordinary acrobatics required to fertilize and perpetuate all species. I’ve seen nature be cruel but also extravagantly generous. In the garden, as in our human culture, bullies and victims exist under our noses, those who succumb senselessly to infestation and the lucky ones who flourish where they are planted.
On nature’s stage, her dramas and comedies put any of Shakespeare’s plays to shame since life and death is not an illusion to be performed the next day. There are no repeat performances with the fear of winter’s breath blowing down the necks of those desperate to reproduce for another year. Every day I stand in my yard and gaze in wonder at the bumblebees wearing their pollen pantaloons that are so full they can barely fly, cardinals gorging themselves on the bowing sunflower heads, lightening bugs who are still shining for their mates as autumn kisses the breeze and crows congregating for their rowdy fall fraternity parties in the trees.
The sun wanes and our shadows lengthen after cicadas march down into earth for another seventeen-years’ sleep, monarchs lay their eggs on the way to Mexico, the honey bees gather their last golden mead, goldfinches rear their final offspring and we don our masks for another season.
June and July became blurred by extremes in rain and heat. Rainfall totals broke a 165-year-old record in my area and when the sun turned red from wildfires in the west bringing the heat with it, our wet soil cracked under the strain. We were told to pull all bird feeders and drain the baths when a mysterious illness started killing the songbirds. Scientists still don’t know the source. Luckily, all the flowers I have endlessly planted have come to the rescue for pollinators and seedeaters who flock around the house. We harvest from our vegetable garden daily now, and I am thankful to freeze the bounty as we begin to don our masks again with the new variant.
With all the torrential changes in weather, mood and outlook, I have learned to go with the flow and let the fear drain away. My soul is too exhausted to hold on to the terror of what will be, adrenaline racing with worry at every news update and media blitz. I consciously change the station in my head and head out to the garden or sit beneath a tree old enough to remember another kind of blitz, its roots burying the ills of man to feed the tender shoots of a new beginning, nibbled on by fresh fawns who have existed for only a second in the world, but who are already wiser than I.
Autumn is usually a dry season, but this year who knows? With reservoirs full and rivers overflowing, water will still find a way to leave and wind its way toward the collective oceans. And like the summer itself, I cannot hold the water back or prevent it from moving on. Even the dew will disappear one day soon, to be replaced by its cousin the frost.
Until then, I admire those sparkling jewels I find displayed in the morning garden.
I was preparing my usual last-minute blog post for May when one of my eyes began it’s long-awaited vitreous detachment during the Memorial Day weekend as a consequence of my eye surgeries last year. Most of June and two retinal tears later, I can finally bend over to plant my garden and lift the watering can again. I’m grateful for technology and medical advances but there are always nerve-wracking tradeoffs and repercussions to any alterations that didn’t come in my prenatal package.
After a relatively quiet spell of weather in May (although unusually cold) we were treated to a huge tropical storm system that precipitated a deluge of over four inches of rain in less than two hours. My family thanked our lucky stars that we lived on a hill as my husband and I bailed out our basement in the middle of the night while hundreds of sirens wailed eerily all over town for water rescues after flash flooding roared through downtown, the nearby university and right down the hill from us. I don’t think I’ve ever lived through so much rain in such a short period of time–over seven inches in three or four hours!
Someone local was wondering what we had done to deserve plague, locusts and now floods. But I surmise that we only have ourselves to blame. Oh, and the locusts are really beneficial cicadas that turned our backyard into the land of plenty for many critters and birds and left my garden alone, although there were some comical cicada rescues from my row covers and barricades to keep wildlife from eating all our vegetables. Despite the setbacks we were able to harvest lots of lettuce, broccoli, kohlrabi, cabbage and a new one–Romanesco cauliflower (or broccoli depending on who you talk to).
Speaking of wildlife, we watched the birth of deer triplets over Memorial weekend from our kitchen window. I was all set to work in my backyard that morning until I saw mama deer giving me the stink eye from our neighbor’s yard. Something about her behavior and long-forgotten childhood memories of our dairy cows about to give birth alerted me that we should stay inside and just watch. The process took all morning, and the deer’s efficiency in birth, cleanup and nursing without any human intervention was astounding to me after witnessing so many difficult birthing sessions with cows and sheep. Sadly, two fawns did not survive beyond the first week and the remaining one has a terrible leg injury. I can’t imagine trying to raise fawns in a heavily populated urban environment. There are so many hazards and predators, including a bobcat recently spotted at the edge of town.
Finally, I’m very grateful to my husband and daughter for stoically planting the multitudes of seedlings in June that I grew and refused to compost. Packs of annuals, native perennials and vegetables sat in trays for days while I recuperated from my laser eye repairs and tried to figure out where to put them all. (Note to self next year: Don’t plant or buy anything unless you have a place for them.) Now in year two, I’m still figuring out sun and shade movement around our home, and where to place containers for best effect. The new patio provides full morning and shifting afternoon sun that can be a challenge for demanding plants, and the recently constructed raised beds still need lots of amendments (I’m tracking down some organic dried chicken manure even as I type).
After the big June monsoon you’d think we would settle down into drought, but we seem to be trying to turn into the northern tropics, which our neighbor’s cursed bamboo is wildly celebrating by taking over the block along with all the groundhogs, rabbits, chipmunks and squirrels that reside in there. I’m half-expecting to see a panda emerge from the depths of his jungle any day now and wander down the street. If June is any indication of things to come, I won’t be a bit surprised.
This February we experienced the deepest snows and coldest temps since moving into our little yellow bungalow. I was beginning to think we lived in a southern climate until the negative windchills rattled our windows and deep drifts muffled my garden dreams. But as is the course of all extreme weather events, the pendulum has swung back to a lovely week of balmy breezes and the recent polar vortex fades into memory but for a few scraps of white clinging to the edges of driveways.
Once again we count ourselves fortunate as we watch the aftermath of grid failure in warmer lands completely unprepared for such arctic extremes. No doubt lives have been totally disrupted and altered by conditions that they couldn’t control. In a heartbeat all that you’ve counted on can disappear along with power, food and water, violently shoving your life in a very different direction. I was reminded of the polar vortex in January 2014, when our house in the suburbs suddenly lost electricity after a heavy snow along with one other house right before the temperatures dropped forty degrees overnight to -11 Fahrenheit. By the next day, 100,000 households were out all over the city with restricted travel, but we were the only ones in our neighborhood.
Luckily, my family could stay with our generous neighbors across the street while waiting three days for the electric company to get around to restoring power for only two houses (which consisted of flipping a switch at an electrical box by the street). In the meantime our house temperature dropped to below freezing and every liquid froze (even the shampoo) as my husband kept a fire going in the fireplace during the day. We made the wise decision to drain the water pipes which saved our plumbing. Our neighbors in the same boat were not so fortunate, sustaining $20,000 in water damage.
Afterward, many suggested we get a generator or a wood stove to prevent a repeat of a supposedly rare occurrence (which seems to be occurring more often now). The street-side power station that malfunctioned was later replaced. But I couldn’t seem to get warm again even after the house eventually thawed out and the frozen bottles returned to liquid. Our illusion of safety was gone, and we were tired of maintaining a home that was too big for us as we’d outgrown the suburban lifestyle. Over the years we’d dismissed the nudges of change as merely annoying little snowballs that finally grew in size until reaching avalanche proportions on the heels of an arctic clipper. I feared an iceberg was next.
And so four months later we put our house on the market and sold it in a day. We gave away most of our furnishings and settled into a two-bedroom apartment with the assurance that the complex had backup generators. Snow removal was included in the rent, and we could walk to stores for food and supplies. But the appliances were all electric and there was no fireplace. In extreme cold the fire sprinklers in our ceilings would have burst and we couldn’t turn off our water and drain the pipes if we wanted to. In three years, we would move on as part of the five-year odyssey to find community and sustainability in an increasingly isolated world where you barely know your neighbor.
I will never forget the family who lived right next door to us in the suburbs who knew of our plight but never even offered to run an extension cord over to power our portable heater for an hour or so. To add insult to injury, our house sat dark and frozen while their house was luridly aglow from the extravagant Christmas decorations that were still up and running. As I watch the same selfish and negligent acts unfold on the news while Texans struggle to survive, I wonder if we will ever find a way to get along and work together in community with such a sense of distrust and entitlement rampant in our culture while the lack of foresight and preparedness continues to undermine our very existence as a species.
These days we still don’t have a fireplace or generator but our wishlist for power backup includes solar and a wood-burning stove. For now our gas stovetop will have to do.
Time once again for the annual unveiling of my word for the year, a theme that always becomes eerily accurate as the months flow by. Last year’s “Rebirth” certainly lived up to its potential by anticipating my eye surgeries as well as our recent relocation. Little did I know how life-changing 2020 would be in my little corner of the world and all over the planet as social, political and scientific transformation was brought to disruptive, often violent, life.
Since I began to stay home and avoid public spaces last January in preparation for my medical procedures, I have essentially been homebound for a year now. My new life became very limited in scope, forcing an internal perspective and examination which I had been avoiding for decades. For me, it was much easier to mold my motivations and actions around someone else’s agenda than to determine my own. For one, it’s easier to blame the other party when plans don’t work out, which is usually the case when you aren’t on the right path.
In retrospect, my forced isolation in childhood and subsequent expulsion when I no longer fit the family dynamic catapulted me into a series of careers and relationships that never seemed to work out. Like the prince in Cinderella, I searched tirelessly for someone or something that would fit my life’s slipper without really examining the shoe itself. What color and style was it, what was it made of, and where did it come from? I acted out the traditional roles of artist, writer, academic, teacher, librarian, proofreader, shopkeeper, caregiver, house cleaner, and office assistant to fulfill others’ wishes and unfulfilled dreams, and conform to the expectations of my generation. In many cases I didn’t feel I had much choice as a female raised by a woman who thought my role was to marry a farmer and stay at home while also insisting I go to college and become a famous writer or artist.
Needless to say I was confused. What I really wanted was to work in the family nursery and tend to the colorful seas of annuals, geraniums, poinsettias and tropical houseplants in magical kingdoms under glass. I come from a long line of growers and farmers who passed their green thumbs along to me. But due to misogynistic views and family dysfunction, that dream was not to be. So I created gardens for myself: an entire bedroom full of houseplants in high school, an assortment of zonal geraniums my father grew wholesale that I dragged around for all four years at college, an obsessive collection of herb plants at a duplex as a newlywed, a square-foot garden hand-dug while recuperating from a difficult pregnancy, backyard raised beds as first-time homeowner, an ambitious but doomed try at homesteading 5,000 square feet of mule pen out in the country, feeble attempts at container gardens in the suburbs and finally a stint at running a community garden at a retreat center with no help from the community.
Which brings me to today’s little California bungalow on a very narrow urban lot in a neighborhood that encourages gardens rather than lawns. In fact “Gardens” is in the name of this century-old historic suburb built for limestone, railroad and factory workers in a town known for its creative quirkiness. Last year, despite some medical setbacks and supply difficulties, I managed to start some seeds, buy plants, build a cold frame and create garden beds with my husband’s help. This year I’ve ordered seeds early and made big plans to replace our barren lawn with vegetables, flowers and native plants while continuing my quest for year-round harvests. The photo shown above of my cold frame was taken two days ago, in January. I can’t wait to winter-over more vegetables and greens next year.
Which finally brings me to my word for 2021. After last year’s traumatic and frightening process of birth, there has to be “Growth.” Now that I’ve found my place in the world, I have the opportunity to grow, literally and spiritually on my own terms. Will I create art? Well, yes, gardening is an art form, and I plan on producing some garden-inspired art, too. Will I write? I certainly hope so. There’s much to be noted in tending a garden, particularly nature’s lessons in humility. Will I engage with others? That remains to be seen, but I fervently wish to contribute to my little neighborhood and provide a better habitat for wildlife, especially the insect world that is rapidly vanishing while we wait for vaccines and herd immunity.
I guess the glass slipper may have turned into a gardening clog, but it’s still beautiful to me.
The reckless spells conjured by careless and cruel humans over the last two months cast long shadows that have reached even my little haven. Still, I do what I can, harvesting sage, rosemary, lavender, and marigold petals while stocking up on hope and optimism for the long-predicted winter isolation. Moon water collected to cleanse, and palo santo lit to protect. Ballot mailed in early, chest freezer filled, local trips limited, and projects lined up to take my over-active mind off whatever sensationalized news darkens my doorway.
Will all of this be enough to keep my loved ones and me sane and healthy? The specters of unexpected illness and poverty from a broken healthcare system and looming economic crash haunt my dreams at night and my social media by day. I wish I possessed a crystal ball, but they are all backordered from China. Still strangers in a new town, my only scrying comes from out the window where I gaze upon our neighbors like socially distanced guests at a masked ball. I can only guess at their lives and affiliations by symbolic porch decorations or political signs. Rental houses sit empty with mailboxes overflowing or grow neglected, covered in vines.
Deer wander through our yards in broad daylight, perusing me like I am the one trespassing, and rightfully so. Squirrels have formed their own militias, armed with nuts and determined to show us who’s boss. The trees are slow to turn, as if reluctant to move into autumn, and exceptionally warm temperatures have led into an uneasy Indian summer where the enchanted garden still hangs on despite the frosts.
Safe for now in our little cottage on the hill, a bubbling pot of soup on the stove and a line of salt on the threshold, we light a candle and sit waiting for what is to come, spellbound in a captive world.